


What The Stars See When We're Asleep

by LadyFangs



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lust, Pre-Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 20:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Jorah gets some relief, the handmaidens tell all, and Daenerys's imagination is sparked.(Jorah Mormont is a sexy older man, who suffers from Daenerys-induced sexual frustration. Jhiqui decides to help him out. Dany hears the details and starts to look at Jorah a bit differently).





	What The Stars See When We're Asleep

It’s been warmer than usual on the Dothraki sea; the sun has baked the sand a deep tan, cracks have begun appearing in the earth, a sign of thirst, to be sure, and even the tall grasses sway gingerly in the warm breeze—as if fearful a strong gust could snap them from their stalks.

The horde walks slower as the days grow longer and the nights, hotter. They are at the mercy of a summer that refuses to go in peace.

Until one day, there’s a whiff of something new in the air. The grass stands taller as if in expectation. The insects sing—as if preparing for a long-awaited welcome.

Their Khal raises a fist in the air and as one body, the horde stops moving. They will make camp here. It is mere hours before the first drops come, and, as day seeps into night, the rains fall. And the storms blow through.

Salve for a type of thirst.

After the long walk to the brink of exhaustion, within the respite, the people of the Khalasar comes alive again.

.

.

The river now flows, its current just strong enough for bathing and washing. He does not know how long it has been since his last. Jorah slips away from the Khalasar when dusk comes, begging his leave to steal a moment of privacy—a concept virtually unknown to the Dothraki, but desperately needed by the Northman.

It has been a long journey, both in the body and in the mind. And while he has grown accustomed to never being completely alone, he craves the silence from voices and these small moments he can steal for himself. 

There is no one here. He settles on a rock to start the task of removing his clothes. These ragged garments are all he has in the world now, and while the Dothraki tease him that he must be hot in so many layers, he will never tell them that it is more so for his emotional comfort than his physical one. He wears these clothes as armor to guard his heart.

The water is cold against his warm skin, the initial shock of it sending a shiver through Jorah. He clenches his teeth and steps deeper and more resolutely into the waist-high water, allowing it to run through him, washing the filth away.

What it cannot do, however, is stop the cacophony of thoughts in his mind. And, as he slowly begins to wash, the water only further arouses the basest of desires.

It’s been a long time since he’s been with a woman.

Khal Drogo has given him permission to have any of the Dothraki women, save one; Unfortunately for Jorah it is his nature to crave what he cannot, should not have.

With a sigh, he uses his hands to scrub his arms, his neck and face, electing to focus on something other than the problem before him. What he needs, he thinks, is something else; a distraction. He has been down this path before and knows how it ends. He is here, now, because he desired something he was unfit to have. He had confused love and lust—but now that he is older and wiser, he can recognize they are not the same.

So he files this away as lust—and recognizes the need that accompanies it.

There is just one problem; he is not a young man any longer, and it has been a long time since he’s had a need to attract a woman.

Jorah has never considered himself handsome. He has always recognized that he will never be fair—like the Lannisters. And his wife—former wife—Lynesse, always lamented about his hair. “So much, Jorah! Really, you are like a bear!” Liking it less and less the further he took her away from her home, until the sight of him, he felt, repulsed her.

The Dothraki are resplendent almost in their nakedness, their russet skin mostly smooth and hairless—and he, a woolen beast almost, in their midst.

It is why he baths alone when he has the opportunity. Why he takes his own pleasure away from the rest—where he can be alone with his memories and regrets and wants and desires. One hand slips below the surface of the water.

.

.

A rustling of leaves interrupts his ministrations and with a start Jorah comes from his reverie, the sound causing him to flush, and attempt to cover himself.

“Who is there?” He calls, looking to the shore. The grasses part, and before him is Jhiqui. _Part of Daenerys’ retinue_, Jorah recalls, having seen the girl before in the presence of the Khaleesi. Unlike the others, however, Jhiqui tends to be quieter and the few times he has seen her, she has been folding clothes and fetching water, while the others have attended to Daenerys more directly.

“Jorah the Andal,” Jhiqui says quietly looking at him, her dark eyes refusing to meet his. “I…”

Before he came to live among the Dothraki, he too had thought them wild, feral, more animal than human. When he finally came to be among them, he quickly realized the men bore more strength than the bravest knight and the high, natural beauty rivaled the fairest of maidens.

Jhiqui, he notices, is among the more exceptional. Her dark hair is flecked with brown and curly, framing her face, her light brown eyes wide-set and upturned.

“I meant not to startle you.” She says in Dothraki.

“You followed me,” his own speech is blunt. Jhiqui’s face flushes but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she raises her eyes to his, long lashes accentuating their almond shape. This time, her plush lips curl into a soft smile as she takes a cautious step forward, undoing the waist of the short skirt she wears allowing it to fall on the bank of the stream.

Jorah swallows. But he doesn’t move from his spot in the water, and he doesn’t break his eyes from hers, even as she removes her top, and bares herself to him.

“I thought you may be in need…” she trails off, coming to stand before him in the water, her breasts brushing against his chest as she looks up at him.

His body has long adjusted to the coolness, and now, he is hot, feeling his own blood pulsing in his veins.

It is near dark now, the revelry of the horde sounds distant, the stars have begun to peek out of the velvet sky, and around them, night things begin to wake.

He is here, at this moment. And it feels…surreal.

“Jhiqui,” his voice is low, thick with a need he has no words to express…a desire that burns within every man…

Under the water, her smaller hands embrace his larger ones, removing them from his manhood, and taking it hers, slowly beginning to stroke it. She must have known, he thinks briefly, she must have seen…

But then, she looks up at him.

“Let me aid you,” she says turning her body so that he must follow, and they walk back slowly, to the banks, Jorah, lying back on the soft grasses as if a bed, Jhiqui’ coming between his legs and moving down, her tongue sliding along the thick, hard shaft that is straining toward her.

He weakly tries one more time to stop it, but his protests die in his throat, as Jhiqui takes him all the way down hers.

.

.

“Alright. What is it?” Daenerys cannot take any more of their snickering. Her handmaidens have been whispering now for hours, it seems, and while she does not mind them speaking among themselves, she also does not like being in the same room, yet completely left out of the conversation.

“It is nothing, Khaleesi,” Irri says quickly.

“If it is just nothing,” Danny says slowly, “Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it is not talk for a Queen,” Doreah says, darting a withering look at Irri, who giggles, and Jhiqui, who has the good sense to look chastised.

“It is talk of Ser Jorah,” Irri says ignoring Doreah in her giddiness.

At the name of her knight, Daenerys attempts to feign disinterest. He has been a good knight, a kind man, and a gentle mentor.

“Jhiqui took Ser Jorah to bed,” Irri says, oblivious to subtleties.

Daenerys’ eyebrows go up quickly, but she immediately schools her face. “But he is old.”

At that, a wounded look crosses Jhiqui’s face. Seeing her young handmaiden’s expression, Daenerys tries to correct the insult.

“I mean, he is…older than us. Jhiqui…” she tries to find an appropriate question. Daenerys has never thought of Ser Jorah in…THAT manner, but now, as she puzzles it, she can…perhaps, see it. Yes, the knight is old, but his eyes are blue and kind, and his hands, while rough from the sword are large and gentle with their touch, and he is tall, as tall as and taller than the other Dothraki, and broad…

Doreah is watching Daenerys with intensely, lips drawn in a tight line.

“How was it?” Daenerys asks, curious now, about Ser Jorah and Jhiqui.

At that, the woman’s face lightens into a grin and she eagerly tells them everything. Details of which, make Daenerys’ ears burn. And later, when they are all gathered for a great feast, and Ser Jorah enters the circle, the handmaiden’s giggle a little, and Jhiqui smiles at the knight, and Daenerys tries NOT to think of everything Jhiqui has spoken. She has a husband. A great Khal. And her attention—even briefly—should not be wasted on a disgraced Westerosi knight.

Yet, when she tries to coax Khal Drogo into similar intimacies that Jhiqui explained from her tryst with Ser Jorah, her husband will not yield. And later, after their coupling, when he leaves her tent for his and she is alone, she wonders if this is the way it will always be, and she finds herself somewhat jealous of the other girl, though Daenerys doesn’t fully understand why that is.


End file.
